


Send Your Child Unto Me

by Basalit_an



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basalit_an/pseuds/Basalit_an
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Title:</b> Send Your Child Unto Me<br/><b>Word Count:</b> 6580<br/><b>Fandom:</b> The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim<br/><b>Characters:</b> Lucien LaChance, Nelkir <br/><b>Rating:</b> T<br/><b>Warning:</b> Depictions of violence, character death, spoilers for the Dark Brotherhood questline<br/><b>Disclaimer:</b> All characters, settings and references are property of Bethesda. I do not own them. <br/><b>Summary:</b> Fifteen years after the civil war, the Dark Brotherhood has been completely erradicated in Skyrim. Yet the will of the Night Mother lives in on. Lucien LaChance is given new life and purpose: the find this new Listener and to return the Dark Brotherhood to its terrifying glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

The stranger walked in that Heartfire afternoon, the click and creak of the front door the only indication someone had entered. He stood in the doorway, his gaze sliding over the odds and ends adorning the walls and shelves. Above him there was movement: the scuffling footsteps of a careful descent down stairs.

Calixto Corrium crept down from his bedroom in the loft, gripping a short walking stick with wrinkled and shaking hands. The elderly Imperial didn't get many visitors in his House of Curiosities, save for the bored Legionnaire recruit with time on his hands and not enough gold to get drunk on.

"Good day," Calixto greeted, his raspy voice clawing its way out of his scratchy throat. The stranger regarded Calixto, but the elder had to turn away as a mild fit of coughs overcame him.

"Are you all right?" the stranger asked as the last hack tore its way out of Calixto's lungs.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Calixto assured, "Yes, yes, just fine." He was old, and the harsh, cold air of Windhelm had become harder to bear in his twilight years. "You've no doubt come to see my collection," Calixto said to his guest, clearing his throat. "Only two septims, and I can give you the full tour."

The stranger seemed to consider this for a moment in silence, then said, "I'd very much like that." Calixto watched as the man, a fellow Imperial, removed a small black coin purse from the pocket of his worn leather trousers.

There was something about this man that put Calixto on edge, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. From the rigid way the man stood to his eyes, so dark a shade of brown that swallowed his pupils, to the inky blackness of his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He moved fluidly, hardly making a sound.

Calixto wondered if he might not be from the Thieves' Guild. They'd grown to be quite the mob in the past decade, aided no doubt by Jarl Black-Briar down in Riften. If that was the case, Calixto had a way of dealing with him. There was a reason, after all, why the House of Curiosities had not seen a break-in in years.

Septims in hand, Calixto began the tour as usual, describing many of the treasures he and his sister had collected in their travels together. Though it had been a long time since her passing, he still felt the sting of her loss in his soul every day. It never ceased to plague him, and his failure to bring her back had nearly driven him to suicide.

Falling silent while the stranger regarded Ysgrammor's soup spoon, Calixto tried not to remember the grisly murders and his total failure in his attempt to bring his sister to life. He hadn't thought of that time in years, having buried it away in his mind, never to be unearthed. He'd been fortunate to get away with the deaths of five young woman while entirely submerged in delusion; he need not think of it further.

He was a dying man, after all.

Calixto roused himself from his thoughts and began the next part of the tour, taking the stranger into the smaller room off the to east of the main part of the house. This once had been his bedroom, but he had had it remodeled into an armory of sorts. Here he displayed the weapons he and his sister had used in their adventures, as well as several pieces he'd bought over the years.

Racks of swords, maces and axes mounted each wall, glittering sharply in the candlelight. Bows both mundane and enchanted hung along mounts, displayed alongside their sharp arrows. Cases held daggers and knives, sharpened and polished, and one wall proudly displayed several staves, offset by a set of black soul gems.

Empty of course. The message was clear to any would-be thief.

If the stranger was rattled by the collection, it didn't show on his stoic face. Calixto spoke of the weapons and how he had acquired a few of them. His gaze fell on a small silver dagger locked in a case beside the door. It shined dimly, the silver surface darkened permanently. No matter how many times Calixto had cleaned and polished that blade, he was never able to remove the stains.

The stranger walked about the room, looking at each sword and axe, his hands clasped behind his back like he was doing an inspection. His leather-clad feet hardly made a sound as he walked, even over the creakier of floorboards. He moved gracefully and with purpose, and Calixto eyed him carefully as he paused before a case on the far side of the room.

"Tell me about this one," he said over his shoulder, and Calixto joined him by the case.

He gazed down at an ebony dagger, displayed alone. It was an ugly blade, its edge rough and hardly sharp enough to cut butter. The hilt was curved awkwardly, making it hard to wield. "I bought this off of a Khajiit caravan some time ago," he explained, looking to the stranger's face again. "I was told it held a powerful enchantment."

"Does it?" the stranger asked, meeting Calixto's gaze.

Calixto felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "I haven't had a chance to find out," he admitted. He hated holding the thing. It felt wrong, somehow.

Once more, Calixto was thrown into a fit of coughs. Must have been the dust in that room. He didn't often get a chance to clean in there. He turned back to the man to excuse himself, and gasped when he saw the stranger was holding the dagger in his hand.

The case had been locked up tight. How the man had opened it so quickly and so quietly, Calixto couldn't be certain. The light in the room flickered, as if the flames in the sconces along the wall had been blown by a draft. The room seemed to grow colder.

"Put that back," Calixto demanded, taking several steps away from the man. He was already charging a powerful lightning spell. He may be dying, but he had once been a respected mage of considerable power.

"This blade hungers," the stranger spoke slowly, his voice having dropped two octaves. He peered right into Calixto's eyes, and the old man felt frozen on the spot. "You understand that hunger, don't you?"

Calixto felt his stomach drop and the spell died in his hand. There was no way this man could have known about Calixto's murders. He was a stranger; Calixto had never seen him before, and he would have remembered someone like this. If he did know, however, he could not be allowed to leave this place alive.

Steeling his nerves, Calixto glanced toward the case holding the silver dagger. Every death played behind his eyes as he said firmly, "It's time for you to go."

"My time was long ago," the stranger said, "but now I've returned. It is you the Dread Father calls for."

Calixto's eyes went wide. This man was Dark Brotherhood, but that was impossible. The order had been destroyed for good years ago. And who would perform the Black Sacrament against him? No one knew!

From some ancient place in his mind, survival instincts came to life. Calixto turned to run, but he tripped over feet grown clumsy from age and fear. He went dow, slamming his head hard against the cold wood of the floor. He groaned as stars exploded behind his eyes, and he could barely see the leather-clad feet of his assassin in front of his glazed eyes.

He felt the blade enter his body, almost as if his flesh welcomed it in. It didn't hurt. It felt almost comforting as the cold enveloped him, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for fifteen years.

The stranger stood over Calixto's body, gazing at the blade in his hand, its cold hilt in his colder hand. Its ebony blade, bathed in the blood of a murderer, appeared to grow sharper before his eyes. He ran a finger down the curved blade, the metal cutting flesh that did not bleed.

"My friend," he whispered to the Blade of Woe, "how I have missed you."


	2. The Gathering

Delvin Mallory was in a bad mood.

It seemed like the guild had hit another bad-luck patch. The new whelps never seemed to bring in anything worth more than a few gold teeth. Rings, lockets, candlesticks, silverware. Sure, they were lucrative enough, but they weren't big hits, and they weren't very exciting. 

Maybe he was getting too old. He'd been doing this for so long, perhaps nothing could excite him anymore. He couldn't even remember the last job he'd personally pulled. For years now, he simply sent out the new thieves, the initiates, and turned over whatever they brought it. If he wasn't dealing with initiates in the Ragged Flaggon, or Brynjolf in the Cistern, then he was haggling with his contacts to turn over hot merchandise. 

It hardly got his blood pumping. 

His life had become stagnant. He knew this. He could remember being young, a new initiate in the guild himself, and pining for the position and power that meant he didn't have to go out and do the dirty work. Now that he had that position, he found he missed pulling jobs. 

Gold always glitters more in someone else's pocket. 

He sighed and turned to the pieces the new Dunmer girl had brought in, apparently from Dawnstar. Delvin didn't even know there was anything worth stealing in Dawnstar, and this measly pile of treasure sure want much example: a stack of books, a few pieces of jewelery, an elven dagger. Things that would sell, that Delvin could move and easily profit from, but they were mundane things. 

He moved the books to one side and peered at the jewerly. Sapphire and rubies blinked up from gold and silver fittings, glinting in the dim light of the Cistern. Worth a few hundred septims, no doubt. But they were no Gems of Berenziah. 

Reaching for the dagger, Delvin's elbow hit the stack of books, knocking them to the floor. Hissing a string of profanities, he quickly scooped them up, checking them over to be sure the pages didn't get bent or torn. Book people were finicky; one little dogear could drastically decrease a book's value. 

They seemed okay. A bit dirty. He kicked himself for being so careless. He was definitely getting too old. But how does a man retire from the Thieves' Guild? 

Simple. He doesn't.

He re-stacked the books, this time in the middle of the table. A slip of paper sticking out from a red volume caught his eye, and he eased it out of the book's grip. He unfolded the note, perhaps thinking he'd find a map to hidden treasure. Stranger things had happened in his life.

It wasn't a treasure map. The page was blank of words; rather, in the center was the inky mark of a big black hand print. He was very familiar with what this was, and despite his rational mind telling him this was nothing, a chill ran down his spine. 

The Dark Brotherhood. They were long-gone, of course, destroyed by a posse or something around fifteen years ago. This little note, usually sent as a death threat, was just the lingering ghost of a bygone era. Much like himself. 

He returned to work. 

-

It was late in Heartfire, and the winter was upon them. The leaves were beginning to turn; the nip in the air called for spiced wine and hearty stew. 

Ralof set his axe down, wiping sweat from his brow. Stretching the sore muscles in his shoulders, he caught sight of a group of pilgrims crossing the bridge, coming down from the 7000 Steps. He'd seen them begin their journey last week. 

Sometimes he wondered if he should make that journey. Perhaps it would quell some of the last lingering regrets in his heart. 

Just as he began stacking the chopped wood, his wife, Temba, joined him. "It's getting late," she told him, as if she didn't have a penchant for working long into the night. 

"I know, dear," Ralof said. "I'm almost finished here." She reached out and gave his rough hand a small squeeze, bringing a smile to Ralof's lips. 

"Finish quickly," she said, letting go. "Supper is ready." She turned and strode to their home, a modest shack they'd built together. 

He watched her go, feeling the tingling warmth where she had touched him. The woman he loved, the woman who had hidden him from Legionnaires out for Stormcloak blood after Ulfric's death. She'd saved his life in more ways than one in the years after the civil war. 

He'd never be able to forget the nights hidden away in her room at the Vilemyr inn, or ducked down in a pile of splintery timber, as Imperial soldiers searched small Ivarstead for any lingering Stormcloaks. Temba remained calm and collected in their presence, never letting on that she was hiding Ralof and dozens of other fleeing Stormcloak soldiers. 

She herself had never been a soldier, but she had supported Ulfric and his cause. She'd helped hundreds of defeated soldiers that passed through Ivarstead, doing what she could to help them avoid capture and execution. 

That amazing woman had been willing to give Ralof a job at the mill when it became obvious that Ralof had nowhere else to go. Returning to his sister in Riverwood would be too dangerous for both himself and his family. But he would never leave Skyrim, the land he loved and had lost everything to protect. 

It wasn't much longer after that the two did marry. As the mill became more and more successful, with Imperial orders pouring in the reconstruct damage the war had caused through Eastmarch, Ralof and Temba were able to build a home together, and Ralof became owner of the mill alongside his wife. 

They didn't have children. Temba was older, and their attempts had never been successful. Though emotionally wearing, they'd moved past it together, stronger than ever. 

Ralof's life in Ivarstead was nothing short of a miracle, especially considering the fate of so many of his brothers and sisters in arms. 

The war was but a distant memory in his mind now. The Empire and Skyrim still suffered under Thalmor interference, and it seemed like nothing had changed. But in Ivarstead, things were perfect, and Ralof was more than willing to accept this destiny. 

Sometimes he wondered how Hadvar was faring. Gerdur had written of him only once, saying that he had retired from the Legion and was living with his uncle and cousin. She never wrote anything else, even if Ralof inquired. 

"Are you Ralof?" a voice behind him asked, startling Ralof from his reflections. 

Ralof turned on the young man, expecting Legion soldiers ready to take him in. Hand on the hilt of his dagger, he realized his mistake, seeing that it was but a courier. 

"Sorry," Ralof said, relaxing his hand. "I am Ralof." 

The courier smiled nervously, and held out a folded letter. "This is for you," he said, and Ralof took the letter. The boy turned and quickly walked away. 

Ralof smiled and stuffed the letter into the pocket of his trousers and returned to his work. No doubt it would be a letter from his sister, even if the note was unaddressed. When they wrote to each other, they never marked the letters for fear a soldier should intercept it and find Ralof. 

Careful Stormcloaks to the end. 

-

Hadvar sat the in back corner of the Sleeping Giant, trying to nurse a hangover with a deep tankard of mead. He'd woken up late that day, his head pounding to every sound. He'd snuck out of his uncle's home, noisy with the sounds from the forge, and escaped to the inn before his cousin Dorthe could see him. He'd managed to get a few good sips in him before Sven began a rendition of "Ragnar the Red". 

With a sigh, Hadvar laid his head on the table, closing his eyes for a moment. Just one. If he kept them closed for too long, the battlefield would stretch out before him once more. He never wanted to go back there again. 

He emptied his tankard as Sven finished his song, followed by the appreciative applause of the inn's other patrons. Someone called for him to sing "The Age of Aggression." Hadvar hated that song. 

"How goes it?" Hadvar heard Sven's voice beside him, and looked up to see the bard holding two foaming tankards. "Care for a drink?" 

Hadvar smiled as Sven handed him one of the tankards and took a seat across from him. The only good thing about being Riverwood's resident hero was that everyone bought him drinks, even after over a decade since the war. These people did not forget easily. 

Hadvar hated that, too.

"So how's the forge?" Sven asked, like Hadvar ever had anything to do with it. "I heard the Legion's been asking more and more from you guys." 

"That they have," he said between deep gulps of the sweet mead. His uncle and cousin certainly had their hands full. Hadvar mostly got in the way at the forge, so he preferred to stay out of it altogether. 

"Must be nice, all that coin," Sven said lightheartedly, drinking himself. Hadvar didn't respond to that, but drained his drink. He'd gotten good at putting drinks away in the years since he'd retired from the Legion.

The front door of the inn burst open, and a gust of chill air blew in. Brought in with it was Dorthe, who spotted Hadvar immediately and approached him, steam almost coming out of her ears.

"Here comes trouble," Hadvar said as Dorthe stood before him, folding her arms over her chest. A thick vein stood out on her forehead, which meant she was really mad at him. 

"Of course, you'd slink your way back here the moment you got up," she spat. The inn grew quiet as she ranted. "Sounds about right, you in here, getting fatter and wasting our money while my father and I struggle to fill the orders your Legion keeps asking of us!" 

"It's not my Legion," Hadvar said, lifting his flagon to his lips, only to be reminded he had already drained it. 

She sighed, shaking her head. "I don't even know why I bother with you." She threw a folded letter into his lap. "The least you could do, though, is read your own mail." 

Hadvar opened the letter, his eyebrows raising at the sight of a big black hand print in the center of otherwise blank parchment. "What is this?" he asked. 

"How should I know?" Dorthe hissed. "The courier said it was for you. That better not be some threat over a debt again, like what happened in Falkwreath last year. Mother never forgave you for having to sell her sister's pendant to pay for it." 

It was Hadvar's turn to sigh as he crumpled up the parchment. "Probably a prank or something," he said. "You should ask your friend about that." 

Dorthe's glare deepened. Hadvar bit into an apple that was on the table, not meeting her angry gaze. He glanced to Sven, but found the bard had abandoned him, escaping the very awkward situation. 

"I suppose we won't be expecting you for supper, then?" Dorthe asked, sounding weary now. Hadvar only shrugged, just wanting her to leave him alone. He hated thinking about the burden he'd become on his family. It made him feel guilty. 

She sighed, all her anger leaving with her breath. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the inn.

Hadvar ordered another drink.   
-

The stranger sat still in the back of the carriage, the cold wind tugging at his tied-back hair. He didn't feel the cold bite on his cheeks, nor did his body wrack with shivers like that of the driver. 

Cold as the man may be, he was certainly chatty. He had been talking at length about Jarl Black-Briar's mead policies in Riften, but then changed the subject after not getting a single response from the stranger. 

"There's been a lot of murder going 'round as of late," he said, speaking over the faint howl of the wind. "Big names, too. Why, in just the last week, three important people died. One of the big bosses of the Thieves' Guild in Riften, the mill owner in Ivarstead, and Captain Hadvar over in Riverwood." He paused to shake his head, making a tsk sound with his mouth. "Chilling stuff, isn't it?"

The stranger felt the hilt of the Blade of Woe at his belt. "Certainly," he agreed.


	3. Purification

It was night in the Dawnstar hold, and a gusty snowstorm was starting to kick up. The stranger made his way through the snowy blackness, not needing sight to find his way. Soon he was upon the door, the familiar feeling of dread and terror sliding off it in serpentine tendrils.

Reaching out one pale hand, the stranger pushed at the door, staring into the gruesome skull's eye sockets. It gave to the pressure, recognizing who who was and letting him enter. The stranger heard the door close behind him on its own accord, and a whispering welcome licked his ear.

He walked down one long corridor matted with dirt and cobwebs. Mushrooms grew in forgotten corners while the wispy energy of ghosts long gone roamed the hall.

Soundlessly the stranger passed through many rooms: a torture chamber, an old alchemy lab, a practice area, a dining room. Everything was overtaken by dust, mold and invading nature.

He made his way through the old sanctuary, feeling almost a nostalgic tug in his chest. He remembered another sanctuary, in another time, and a Listener that came to be under his tutelage. When he had died, framed by a traitor, and returned to his Father's side.

It had all been quite fun.

Now he had a new purpose, and he knew that so far, he'd been successful. He left behind him a trail of blood and fear, just as any servant of the Night Mother should. He felt Sithis' approval in his soul.

He turned down another stone corridor, taking care to avoid a pressure plate on the floor. Though well-hidden, it was obviously new, and it stood out to his observant eye. The prey wasn't being careful enough.

There were several other traps, clever traps, which the stranger took care to avoid. He walked as death, silently, disturbing only that which had to be disturbed. He made his way to the very heart of the sanctuary, having passed through the hidden door into a darkened room. As he neared, he heard quiet muttering.

Following the voice, the stranger came upon the prey he sought: a man, curled into the fetal position on his side, sobbing and talking to himself in gibberish. He wore the black tatters of a costume, the form long forgotten.

This pathetic creature had once been the Keeper, in the twilight years of the Dark Brotherhood. Touched by the Night Mother, he had been a madman, but very effective at his job. He took delight in caring for Her body and could always laugh at a death. Really, standards every member should meet.

The empty and open coffin propped against the wall was an obvious indication that he had become redundant.

"Who-who is there?" the man called suddenly, jumping up to a crouching position with speed and agility impossible for most men in his condition. "Cicero hears you! Come out! Come out!"

The stranger approached the man, gazing down at this forgotten creature of death. Cicero returned his gaze with bloodshot eyes the color of snow. His face was that of a skeleton, cheeks hollow and baring the outline of teeth. He smelled of urine and humanity left to fester for far too long.

"I bring you an end," the stranger said coolly, his low voice melding with the inky blackness.

"No!" Cicero shrieked, jumping upright now. "Cicero is not ready! Mother still needs me!"

"Know that She is well," the stranger spoke, his voice taking on command now. "Sithis calls for you, child."

Cicero's excited energy calmed at these words. He nodded solemnly, and the stranger turned to leave him. "Tch, typical parents," he heard Cicero mutter. "Always playing favorites."

The stranger returned to the dining hall he'd passed through. A longtable, now in dried and rotting ruins, sat in the center, covered in thick layers of choking dust. The stranger spoke words to the Dread Father under his breath, and cast a fireball spell at the pile. The wood ignited quickly, burning fast and bright. Then, fed by an unholy divine energy, the fire spread across the floor, to the walls and the ceiling, engulfing the room in mere moments.

The stranger fled quickly, pausing only once by a crumbling set of shelves. There was something there pulling him, and with the walls turning to cleansing fire around him, he kicked the smoldering boards away, revealing a lost treasure: The Five Tenents.

Tucking the book under his arm, holding it tight against his body, the stranger ran. The black door opened at his touch, shut behind him, and became consumed in flames.


	4. Discovery

Nelkir awoke to the guards' voices coming from down the corridor, rough against his ears. They didn't speak often in the dungeon; taunting the mad child of Jarl Balgruuf apparently lost its amusement long ago.

For a time, Nelkir had thought he'd been all but forgotten by the world above. The only people in who knew of him were the guards who brought him his meal once a day. Surely by now, even his elder brother, now the jarl after their father's passing, had forgotten about the bastard brother he'd thrown in Dragonreach's dank dungeon.

He wondered if She did, too. The woman who spoke to him when he was a child, whose brief encounter had haunted him every day since. Her presence had invaded his mind, his soul, and he'd been driven almost to the brink of madness.

"This madman attack Arcadia in the marketplace," one guard said. "Just out in open daylight!"

"Is she okay?" the other guard asked.

"She'll be fine," the first assured. "She's probably got a potion to heal any nick and scratch in that shop of hers."

"Why did you make an attempt on that woman's life?" the second guard asked, obviously to the man they had in custody. If he responded, Nelkir couldn't hear it. He doubt the newcomer did, however, because he heard one of the guards sigh.

"What does he have on him?" the first asked.

"A dagger and a book," the other answered. "That's all."

"Take him in, then."

Footfalls sounded from the corridor, growing louder. The guards entered through the doorway with their new prisoner, hands bound, between them. They shoved him roughly into the cell neighboring Nelkir's and slammed the iron bars closed.

There was a thick wall of brick separating the cells, and the lighting in the dungeon was close to nonexistent, so Nelkir couldn't see his new companion.

Hours passed in silence before Nelkir received his first and probably only meal of the day. He couldn't tell if they had bothered to give the new prisoner anything to eat.

Several more hours slipped by, during which Nelkir slipped in and out of consciousness. He dreamed of the voice who repeated itself in his head in his waking moments, imagined to what wondrous creature it belonged.

A scuttling sound reached his ears, bringing him from light dreams. He thought it might be a bug of some sort, perhaps a roach. There were little chinks and cracks in the stone walls of his prison where insects would crawl in and out. Nelkir liked to crush them. It gave him a small semblance of joy, comforting in this dark hold of his.

But there was no insect; instead, Nelkir discovered the scuttling noise originating from a hole in the wall separating his cell from the newcomer's. Within the hole was a small scroll, almost invisible in the darkness. Unrolling the scroll, he discovered three separate pieces of yellow parchment, each blank except for the symbol of a black handprint in the center of each piece.

He felt a new whisper in his mind. There were no words, but it was a comforting, intimate sound.

He smiled.

"I've awaited you," Nelkir found himself saying, his voice hardly audible to his own ears.

"You have child," the man on the other side of the wall spoke, almost equally as quiet. His voice was deep, powerful, cold, and it surrounded Nelkir like a shroud. "Long ago, she spoke to you."

"Sweet Mother." The words were on Nelkir's lips before he could even think.

"She awaits us."

"I'm ready."

"In time."

Nelkir shifted, jittery now. He felt as if he were standing on the brink of a sudden drop-off, and that his destiny awaited him at the bottom, arms open for him.

"I know you hunger," the stranger said. "And soon we shall sate that hunger. Soon we shall reunite with our Night Mother. Soon our Dread Father will reveal your role. But until then, we must be patient."

After that, the stranger spoke no more, and Nelkir sat in cold silence.

He waited. For three days.

The guards hadn't fed the stranger in that whole time. Nelkir knew, because they only ever brought in one bowl of tasteless porridge. The man rarely spoke, except to tell Nelkir, "It is not time" whenever the young man began to feel restless. It was as if the stranger could sense it.

But the last time he spoke had to have been more than a day ago. Or as close as Nelkir could figure it. Time had slipped into one long moment in the years he'd spent in that prison. Nelkir feared that, without food or drink, the man had fallen comatose, maybe even had perished.

Nelkir had tried to share his last bowl of porridge with the stranger. He'd set the bowl out, only half-eaten, in front of the stranger's cell. He never took the bowl, however, and a skeever had claimed the meal before Nelkir could retrieve it.

The guard came in that day, later than usual, with Nelkir's meal. He approached the cell, but tripped over the emptied bowl that had been slid out. The guard caught himself, but cursed, his voice harsh against Nelkir's ears. "In Stendarr's name," he growled, turning his helmeted head toward Nelkir, "what were you doing, boy? Trying to make friends with the skeevers again?"

"No--no, sir," Nelkir whispered, watching with anguish as his dinner fell to the ground outside the iron bars. His belly roared with hunger as he watched white slop splatter across the dirty floor.

"Let that be a lesson to you," the guard snarled, kicking the bowl into the bars. Sticky bits of the meal were flung into Nelkir's face and hair, and he ran his hands over his cheeks to retrieve what little food he could. He heard the guard chuckle, a hateful sound, and looked up when it was cut short.

He gazed in amazement as strong arms reached out of the bars from the cell beside, pulling the guard close with inhuman force. There was only a tiny yelp, like a dog kicked, which was quietly ended as the guard's body went slack. He slipped from the stranger's grasp, his own dagger in his back.

The smell of blood, both foreign and familiar to Nelkir's nose, slowly permeated the whole room, coating the air.

A white arm reached out and took the keys from the dead guard's belt. Nelkir heard the keys in the iron lock, the creak of bars as the door swung open. The stranger emerged from his prison, and Nelkir took in as much of his dark form as he could in the darkness: he was a tall, slender figure, his body stock-straight. There was a chilling aura of uneasiness that crawled down Nelkir's spine and buried itself in his chest.

The stranger unlocked Nelkir's prison and held out a hand. Nelkir took the hand, cold and clammy, like a corpse. Rising to legs nearly too weak to stand on, Nelkir spoke: "Who are you?"

"Not now," the stranger said. "There is much to be done first." He turned and headed towards the doorway that had always spit out guards. Nelkir obediently followed.

They passed through a long, narrow corridor lit sporadically by torchlight. The hall seemed to stretch into eternity, and it he was almost sure years had passed before they reached the end of it, coming out into a bright room.

Nelkir shielded his unaccustomed eyes from the light. The stranger had crouched down behind the wall and was carefully peering around to the other side. In the light, Nelkir could finally see the fine details of the stranger: his gaunt, skeletal face; his hair, black as pitch, tied back in a tight ponytail; the absolute lack of life in dark pools of his eyes. Curiously, the man's face was clean shaven, though he had no blade or razor for three days. It was a contrast to the matted mess of a beard that clung to Nelkir's cheeks.

"It is clear," the man said, slowly rising again. Cautiously, they walked into the room. Nelkir's gaze traveled over barrels, shelves, a table set with cured meats and dried fruits. Physical hunger driving him, he walked over to the table, picked up a piece of dried beef, and sunk his aching teeth into it.

The ring of steel came to Nelkir's ears, and he turned to see the stranger removing a sword from the rack on the wall. Dread and anguished excitement filled him as he began to realize what escape meant: they would have to face the wrath of the guards if caught.

Nelkir did not feel confident he had the strength for such a fight.

But the man took only one sword, then opened a chest just below the rack and pulled out a black dagger. He took a moment to run his finger down its ugly curved blade. Nelkir thought he heard him whisper to it.

Then the stranger turned to Nelkir, holding out the blade, hilt first. Offering. Nelkir couldn't even tear his gaze away as he reached out and wrapped his shaking hand around its frigid hilt.

"It hungers," the stranger said slowly, and Nelkir's head swam. "Feed it."


	5. The Beginning

Nelkir and the stranger fled down the passage way, both panting with exertion, their clothes bathed in crimson blood. The stench of acrid sweat rose from them both, and they rode on terrified screams in their ears.

No one remained alive in Dragonsreach.

They had escaped down a hidden passage in the larder, a secret door Nelkir had known about. The door was hidden in the stone of the larder wall, but it gave away easily at the stranger's touch. As they passed through, it closed on its own, and the stranger glanced over his shoulder to see a the black skull staring back at him.

"'The night, my brother'," he whispered as they slowed their pace.

"What was that?" Nelkir asked between panting breaths.

"It's not important now," the stranger replied.

The feeling of this place brought that nostalgic feeling back to the stranger, and he knew they stood in unholy territory, blessed by the dark love of the Night Mother.

"How do you feel?" the stranger asked Nelkir.

"I--I feel so...alive," he breathed. "So alive. More alive than ever before in my life."

"Good."

"All those people. Dead. It's exhilarating." He almost chuckled. "I want more."

"There will be so much more to come," the stranger said calmly, now taking the lead to guide the younger down the dark tunnel.

The tunnel split into three paths: one opened into a large cavernous room; another twisted downward into the bowels of the earth; and the last snaked around to the left. The stranger took this last tunnel, Nelkir close behind him, and they followed the winding path to the end, where they found themselves in a small tomb.

The room, pitched in black, held two objects: a small stone offering table long devoid of any offerings and a single, large coffin, still sealed. It was doubtful Nelkir could see these things, but the stranger saw them plain as day.

"Where are we?" Nelkir asked, his voice hushed now. No doubt he felt that they stood in a special place.

"Your home," the stranger replied. "Should you choose to accept it."

The stranger approached the coffin, sliding a white hand over its curved lid. Even to his cold, unliving skin, the coffin felt frigid, and a trail of goosebumps prickled its way up his arm.

"We come to you, Night Mother," the stranger whispered, and he immediately felt a change in atmosphere.

A draft drew by, a chilling wind that sent Nelkir shivering. Ethereal light and smoke slowly formed around the room, casting a deep blue glow, lighting the faces of the two men in the room. Nelkir stared at the formless spirit amongst them, his jaw hung in awe.

And then She spoke: "My children. You have found me at last."

"Mother!" Nelkir cried, throwing himself to his knees. A sob wracked his body. "Oh Mother, I had feared you had forgotten me!"

"Hush, calm yourself, child," She said sternly. "And you." She spoke to the stranger, and he lifted his chin in response. "You have done well, for a corpse."

"The highest honor," he said. "I thank you, Mother."

She turned her unholy attention, who had managed to pulled himself to his feet. She spoke to him in words the stranger could not hear, but he could see the understanding in the boy's haunted eyes.

She had chosen Her Listener.

Then She faded back into the Void, leaving the tomb to fall back into darkness. Nelkir's heavy breathing was the only sound for several minutes.

"What must we do now?" he asked breathlessly.

"Build," the stranger said. "Build and spread terror through Skyrim, through Tamriel, until once again our name strikes fear into the hearts of everyone who hears our name."

"Our name?"

"The Dark Brotherhood."

Nelkir nodded.

"Take some time, child," the stranger said. "You look to need it. Be mindful, however, as we have much work ahead of us."

"Yes, sir," the boy responded dazedly.

"It is I who should call you sir, Listener."

Nelkir opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and walked out of the tomb.

The stranger turned to follow, but an inky blackness darker than the pitch surrounding it caught his eye. It poked out from under the offering table, calling to him. He reached down and grasped the cloth, as thin and cold as if it were made from the Void itself.

Unfolding it, he discovered it to be a robe and hood. Vile energy spilled off of it, comforting his soul. He slipped it over his clothing, pulled the hood over his head.

And he smiled.


End file.
